


Lost and Found

by Nepthys



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-23
Updated: 2008-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-05 23:58:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nepthys/pseuds/Nepthys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Sam Tyler really is back in time?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Although this does feature Jack Harkness, it is set firmly in the LoM 1973 universe. I have taken liberties with Jack’s gadgets which may not fit exactly into the Torchwood/DW universe – oh well, too bad.

_“For whatsoever from one place doth fall,  
  Is with the tide unto an other brought:  
For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.”_  
   
_The Faerie Queene, Book V, Canto II, by Edmund Spenser_  
   
***  
   
   
The last thing he remembered before losing consciousness that particular Thursday evening was something large barrelling into him from behind, and the crack of his forehead against the pavement forming a counterpoint to the pain of something sharp slicing into his neck. No; that wasn’t exactly the last thing. He remembered the weight on his back was suddenly gone, and gentle hands were turning him over. _Gene - thank God_. But it was blue eyes, not green, which looked at him with concern, and a stranger’s voice which asked “Are you alright?” Yep, _that_ was the last thing he remembered.  
   
***  
   
When Sam came round he was still lying on the wet pavement, Chris standing nearby and holding an umbrella over Sam’s head to fend off the worst of the persistent rain. Gene was crouched down next to him.  
   
“Back with us, then, Samantha?”  
   
Sam blinked, his vision blurring. He groaned as he tried to sit up, Gene’s arm coming around his shoulders to help him.  
   
“What the hell happened?”  
   
“I was going to ask you the same thing. When we found you, you were out cold with him bending over you.”  
   
Sam followed the nod of Gene’s head to see a dark-haired young man being handcuffed by Ray, and then shoved none-too-gently into the back of a police car.  
   
Sam frowned, trying to piece together the sequence of events.  
   
“I… after we spread out to search, I spotted a figure along Foster Alley, and he ran when I shouted for him to stop, so I chased him.” He paused. “I’m pretty sure it was our suspect - strange, sort of hunched-over figure - but I didn’t get a good look at him.” Sam glanced around, taking in his surroundings rather dazedly. “Then when I rounded that corner someone attacked me from behind. I couldn’t see who.”  
   
Gene huffed as he grasped Sam’s arm and helped him to his feet.  
   
“Well, you can take a long hard look at him once we’ve got him banged up in the cells.”  
   
Sam squinted after the departing squad car.  
   
“No, Guv. That bloke you’ve just arrested didn’t attack me. I think he saved me.”  
   
***  
   
The crack on Sam’s temple, which was starting to purple nicely, wasn’t his only souvenir of the night’s events. He also had three parallel cuts on his back at the base of his neck, deep enough to bleed but not enough to need stitches. Similar enough to the wounds on Gloria Hanson to convince Sam that he had indeed been tackled by the same man who had slit her throat; the man they had all been combing the surrounding streets for.   
   
Once the doctor had patched him up, and taken the photographs Sam had insisted upon, he headed back to the squad room and into Gene’s office. It was late, but a few of the team were still working on the Hanson case before handing over to the skeleton nightshift. Gene was sitting behind his desk, half-drunk glass of whiskey in front of him. He looked up in surprise as Sam entered.  
   
“Wasn’t expecting to see you back here tonight, Gladys. Your noggin must be thicker than I thought.”  
   
Sam ignored the jibe.  
   
“So who’s our mystery man?”  
   
“You mean our _suspect_. I was just about to question him, actually.”  
   
Ray knocked and stepped inside the door.  
   
“I’ve parked him in Lost and Found, Guv.”  
   
“Has he said anything?”  
   
“Only some sarky comment about me moustache. Other than that he’s clammed up tighter than a gnat’s arse. Says he’ll only speak to the Boss. Bloody poofter.”  
   
Together, Gene and Sam turned to stare at him, both looking taken aback. Although well used to Ray’s insults, Sam was surprised at an unprovoked dig being delivered openly in front of Gene, who had a rather proprietary view when it came to insulting his D.I. Seeing their expressions, Ray continued hurriedly.  
   
“No, I didn’t mean you, Boss. That bloke really is a poofter.”  
   
They continued to look at him, waiting for him to go on. Ray coloured slightly.  
   
“Well, he winked at Chris.”  
   
Sam tried not to smile at the tone of mingled disgust and indignation in Ray’s voice. Gene barked out a laugh.  
   
“Bleeding Nora – I don’t know whether to nick him for murder or for having bad taste!”  
   
He moved towards the office door, clapping Sam on the shoulder as he went and steering him along.  
   
“Right, Tyler, let’s go and do some of that good-cop-bad-cop routine you’re so fond of.”  
   
Sam winced as the slap sent a jolt of pain up his neck to his head, which was still aching. He sighed.  
   
“I suppose you want to be the bad cop again.”  
   
   
***  
   
   
_Good looking_ was the first thing that leapt to Sam’s mind as he and Gene took their seats opposite the man in Lost &amp; Found.

   
Dark hair. Blue eyes (Sam remembered them). Firm set to his jaw, suggesting a certain strength of character and the hint of something steely behind the pleasant façade. About Sam’s age. And pretty fit, as far as Sam could tell beneath the layers of shirt and T-shirt. His dark overcoat was slung over the back of his chair. _Amend that - very good looking_.  
   
“So, you said you wanted to talk to Tyler; well, here he is, so let’s get to it. Who are you, what were you doing in Foster Alley, and why did you attack my DI?”  
   
There was a moment’s silence, and Sam had the distinct impression that the man was weighing them up just as professionally as they had assessed him. Then he spoke.  
   
“Jack Harkness, Captain, US Airforce, currently on leave and visiting Manchester.”   
   
_Hmm. American accent. Quite gorgeous, really. _  
   
A slight smile played around Harkness’s lips as he withdrew a leather wallet from his pocket and opened it to show them a bit of paper. For a moment, the writing on it seemed to swirl and shift in front of Sam’s eyes. He blinked, then the words resolved into a solid ID. He looked up at Harkness, who held his gaze.   
   
“And I didn’t attack you. I simply stopped to assist someone I saw being assaulted.”  
   
“Good Samaritan, eh? Alright, then, sunshine, if you didn’t attack him, who did?”  
   
Harkness paused and then sat back in his chair.  
   
“I don’t know; I didn’t get a good look at him. He ran off before you all arrived.”  
   
Gene snorted.   
   
“How very convenient. Give me one good reason not to bang you up for assaulting an officer!”  
   
Harkness cocked his head to one side and seemed to consider for a moment.  
   
“Because you haven’t a shred of evidence?” He smiled sweetly.  
   
   
***  
   
In the end, Sam had managed to man-handle Gene from the room before he did anything more damaging than thumping the table. Now Gene paced in his office, furiously dragging at a cigarette.  
   
Sam, propped against the filing cabinet, sighed. His head was throbbing and although he normally relished a stand-up knock-out row with Gene, he felt that if he tried that right now he’d either throw up or pass out. So he simply took a deep breath and tried to reason with him.  
   
“Look, I told you he didn’t attack me. He was trying to help. So there’s no need to treat him like a criminal. Besides, one of the witnesses said she’d seen a ‘strange ugly bloke’ covered in blood running away. He doesn’t exactly fit the bill.”  
   
Gene paused by the window, flicking open the blinds to see Harkness sitting at Chris’s desk, giving him a statement. Chris passed him a cup of tea and Harkness said something, flashing him a wicked grin. Chris laughed and offered him a biscuit. Gene scowled.  
   
“There’s something not right about him. And I’m not just talking about ‘im being more camp than a troop of Brownies.” He released the blinds with a rattle.  
   
“I don’t trust him as far as I could catapult him using those stupid braces he’s wearing.” His voice rose, and he rounded on Sam.  
   
“And what’s more, I don’t bloody well like him!”  
   
Sam was saved from having to respond by Ray entering.  
   
Gene turned on him.  
   
“Doesn’t anyone knock in this place!” he roared.  
   
Ray shuffled his feet apologetically.  
   
“Sorry, Guv, I just thought you would want to know that I got through to someone on that phone number Harkness gave us, and they confirmed he is a USAF captain. We have to fill out some sort of form if we want his file, though.”   
   
Gene nodded towards Sam. “Well, that can be a nice little treat for you tomorrow, Gladys.” He turned back to Ray.  
   
“In the meantime, tell that div Chris to stop bloody well flirting with him and get over to Foster Alley; whoever attacked Gloria Hanson and Samantha, here, used some sort of sharp knife and I want it found.”  
   
Ray nodded and hurried out.  
   
“The assailant might have taken it with him,” Sam suggested.  
   
Gene glared at him pointedly.  
   
“Or the walking Colgate advert over there” -- he jerked his head towards Chris’s desk --“might have ditched it before we arrested him.”  
   
“Now you’re just being stubborn because you don’t like him.”  
   
“Am not. He’s as fake as Dame Edna’s tits. I just can’t prove it - yet.”  
   
Sam pushed away from the filing cabinet impatiently. “Fine! So while you have men out trying to fit up Harkness, our real killer is still roaming around on the streets!”  
   
His voice rose in volume to a shout; too late Sam remembered his head injury, and winced with pain as the throbbing doubled. He pressed the heel of his hand to his temple gingerly.  
   
Gene took a step closer, frowning as he peered at Sam’s forehead.  
   
“I thought the quack gave you the once-over. Have you got concussion?”  
   
“I’m alright.”  
   
“You don’t look alright to me - you look as rough as a badger’s arse. It’s way past clocking-off time…” Gene glanced at his watch and snorted. “Even the bloody pub is closing soon. Come on, I’ll take you home.”  
   
Gene grabbed his coat and slung an arm around Sam’s shoulders, shepherding him out of the office and into the nearly-empty squad room.   
   
As they emerged, Harkness stood up, regarding them both with an interested, quizzical air which made Sam feel oddly self-conscious. Somewhat reluctantly, Sam shrugged off Gene’s arm.  
   
“Am I free to go?” Harkness asked.  
   
Gene sniffed. “For now. But don’t leave town.”  
   
Harkness’s gaze shifted to Sam, and he appeared to be about to speak when Ray dashed into the room.  
   
“Guv, there’s just been a blag on at the jewellers on Cranborn Street – plod’s there, and they say the place is a right mess. Looks like it only just happened.”  
   
Gene’s jaw tightened and he nodded to Ray, who hurried off at the unspoken command. Gene turned to Sam, clearly torn. Sam raised a placating hand.  
   
“Look, I’m fine. I’ll come with you…”  
   
“Absolutely not, Tyler. I’ve seen you concussed before, and it’s not a pretty sight. Besides, I need fully-functioning officers with me, not ones that fall over at the first sign of trouble. Go home and get some rest.”  
   
Sam would have rolled his eyes if he hadn’t thought it would probably hurt. Before he could open his mouth to object further, Harkness stepped forward.  
   
“I’ll make sure he gets home alright.”  
   
He and Gene locked gazes: Gene was bristling and clearly unhappy with the suggestion, but Harkness looked steady and unwavering.  
   
Sam took in the rather comical scene. He wasn’t sure whether he was reminded of suitors arguing over a princess or two lions facing each other down over a side of wildebeest, but either way he didn’t much like the analogy.  
   
“Oh for God’s sake!” Sam muttered. He turned to march out the door and head home under his own steam, but his dramatic exit was ruined by him stumbling over his own feet and lurching into the doorframe. _Shit_. Maybe he really _was_ concussed. After all, the floor really shouldn’t be swaying up and down like the deck of a boat.  
   
“Fine.” Gene was speaking to Harkness again. “But as far as I’m concerned you’re still a suspect and if anything happens to him I’ll have you banged up faster than the speed of bloody sound!” He turned to Sam. “And you try not to get handcuffed to your own bed this time!”   
   
With that parting shot, Gene was gone, leaving Sam and Captain Harkness standing in the deserted squad room.  
   
“Well, D.I. Tyler, it’s your place or mine, and as I don’t have anywhere to stay yet, I guess that means it’s yours.”  
   
Sam shook his head a little in an attempt to dispel the dizziness. “Um, yes, that’s fine, it’s not far. And call me Sam.”  
   
“Alright - Sam.” Harkness took a step closer and looked at him meaningfully. “First to your place, and then we can see about getting you home.”   
   
Sam’s brow wrinkled in confusion, and he took a deep steadying breath. “What…?”  
   
Harkness waggled his eyebrows and leaned towards Sam.  
   
“You know,” he said in a low voice, “_home_”.  
   
Coldness gripped something deep within Sam. Surely he didn’t mean…no, perhaps it was some sort of euphemism…   
   
Sam managed a weak smile.  
   
“Well, really, we’ve only just met…it’s a bit early to be introducing me to your mum.”  
   
Now it was Harkness’s turn to look confused. He glanced at the chunky watch he wore on his wrist, then back up to Sam.  
   
“No. I mean _home_ home. Two-thousand and six.”  
   
And for the second time in twenty-four hours, Sam Tyler passed out.  
   
   
***  
   
When Sam had made his decision to stay, all those months ago, he had also decided that he needed to _behave_ like he was staying. So he’d moved to a nicer flat, one with a proper kitchen in which he could actually cook something other than spaghetti hoops on toast, and wallpaper which didn’t remind him of a bad acid trip. He’d put the TV in the bin, bought himself a decent bed, and put up shelves for his new record player and growing collection of LPs.   
   
Life had actually been very good. At first he’d been on a few dates with Annie, until they decided just to stay friends. He also saw much more of Gene, especially after his wife had left him. Sam had tried to be supportive but it was damned difficult, partly due to Gene’s unpredictable temper, and partly because Sam fancied him something rotten.   
   
He’d never been particularly into men before, other than the normal adolescent ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours’ type of stuff. Well, there had been that bloke at college who he’d ended up snogging at a party, but really he was so drunk he could hardly remember what it had felt like, so that didn’t count. No, Sam didn’t really understand how or when it had happened, or why, of all men, he should be attracted to Gene, but there it was. And spending all the time with him was sweet torture: on the one hand Sam really liked Gene’s company, both in and out of work; but on the other he knew that his feelings were not returned. And those feelings were getting stronger the more time he spent with the man. Oh, he didn’t really believe that Gene was homophobic, despite the name-calling; he’d been very gentle with that rent boy last year who’d been badly assaulted. It was just that Gene didn’t swing that way. _Although he does take every opportunity to touch me…but then it can always be explained away as some sort of male bonding thing_.   
   
Sam sometimes reflected wryly on the irony of having chosen to live in 1973, only to then die at an unexpectedly early age of sheer bloody frustration.  
   
Still, he’d embraced his new life, relieved to find that there were no more strange hallucinations, out-of-the-future music, or voices on the radio – well, apart from the ones that were meant to be there. And no more appearances from the test card girl, or her rotten nasty clown.   
   
Nothing untoward at all, in fact – until now.  
   
Sam had not been unconscious for long; he came round to find himself held up by Harkness, who had evidently caught him as he fell. After an awkward moment he disentangled himself, and having proved to the other man’s satisfaction that he was steady on his feet, they slowly made their way to Sam’s flat.  
   
Sam stretched out on the sofa, Harkness – or Jack, as he’d insisted Sam called him – had peered into Sam’s eyes to check his pupils, then had gone to rummage around in the bathroom. He emerged with a flannel soaked in cold water, which he proceeded to fold and place over Sam’s forehead.     
   
Sam waved a hand about.  
   
“You don’t need to fuss; I feel much better now.”  
   
“Sorry to have sprung it on you like that.”  
   
Sam levered himself gingerly into an upright position. “I think you have some explaining to do.”  
   
Jack nodded, and took a seat. “I’m from…” he paused for a moment, “…well, that’s kinda complicated and it doesn’t really matter right now. The main point is that in two thousand and six I work for a secret agency which is responsible for making sure that things like this - ” he waved a hand vaguely in the air “- don’t happen; or that if they do, then the damage is contained.”  
   
“What _things_, exactly?”  
   
“Oh, you know, problems with the rift, aliens, strange eddies in time and space… In this particular case I got caught up in some sort of temporal shift while I was chasing a Lathadimonian – a nasty one, too.”  
   
Sam stared at him.  
   
Jack frowned. “Oh crap. I thought you’d seen it…? Well, no matter. I’m going to need your help as I don’t know one end of this city from the other, and I need to find it before the next window opens....”   
   
Jack fell obediently silent as Sam held up his hand.  
   
“Run that by me again. Only slower. And with more words I can understand.”  
   
Jack expelled a breath and ran a hand through his hair.  
   
“OK, look, I’m in the same business as you, just a different branch. I catch bad guys.”  
   
“And travel through time?”  
   
“And travel through time.”  
   
Sam lowered his head into his hands and started to shake, silently at first, then laughing out loud.  
   
“Alright,” he said between gasps, “who put you up to this? Was it Ray? I _knew_ he hadn’t forgiven me for that thing at the Christmas party…”  
   
Jack raised an eyebrow. “Not the reaction I was hoping for”, he muttered, then spoke louder as Sam continued to laugh. “Two-thousand and six, right? So we’re talking iPods, mobile phones, sat-nav, flat-screen TVs, music downloads, global warming…” he cast around, trying to think of other aspects of modern life and stop Sam’s laughter, which was growing hysterical, “…um.. genetic profiling, DNA analysis, biometric IDs…” he clicked his fingers at Sam, voice rising in volume as he tried to grab his attention “…Kylie Minogue, George Bush is president of the US, Bruce Forsythe is back on TV in a dancing show…” Finally, Sam looked up, damp-eyed, his expression a strange mixture of horror, fear and relief.  
   
“There’s no way you could know about those things,” he said, his voice shaky. “For ages I thought I was mad…” he wiped furiously at his face, then suddenly stopped. “Wait a minute – how do I know I’m _not_ mad? I mean, if this is all in my head, you could just be another figment of my imagination….”  
   
“Strictly speaking, I guess I could be.” Jack shrugged and gave a smile, “Except that I feel pretty real. Why is it easier to believe that you’ve constructed a huge delusion than to believe that you’ve travelled in time?”  
   
Sam’s anguished expression seemed to relax a little as he thought this over. He cleared his throat and collected himself.  
   
“OK. So, how do you explain how you ended up here? And what was the thing you said you were hunting?”  
   
Jack took a breath but before he could start Sam raised his hand again.  
   
“Oh, hang on. If this is going to be a long story then I think I’m going to need a drink.”  
   
   
***  
   
   
So they talked. Jack started with their immediate concerns, explaining that the Lathadimonian would find somewhere to hole up after having fed – blood, apparently being the source of its nutrition - and that it would be at least a couple of days before it went in search of food again. It would seek out somewhere dark and dry, most likely, and they agreed to start the search in the morning. Sam shuddered slightly at Jack’s matter-of-fact reference to Gloria Hanson as ‘food’, and wondered what else this man had seen to have developed such a hard edge.  
   
Jack had also explained – or at least tried to – about the unusual and unexpected temporal shift which had somehow dumped him and his quarry here in Manchester in 1974. He had tried an analogy involving a spiral, and one about an elastic band, and even tried a practical demonstration with a folded towel using the one which had previously been acting as a cold compress (although this was apparently not relevant to the explanation). As Sam’s total knowledge of quantum mechanics could have easily fitted on the back of a matchbox, he decided to go with the general explanation that it was all something to do with fluctuations in ‘timey-wimey’. Jack, as it turned out, couldn’t control the temporal shift, but could, with the help of his strange chunky watch, predict when the next one would open. This same chunky watch apparently had some sort of sensor in it which had also alerted Jack to the fact that Sam was not when he should have been.   
   
By that point they had discarded their shoes and jackets and were both slouched side-by-side on Sam’s sofa, the half-empty bottle of scotch standing on the floor between them, and it was Sam’s turn to do most of the talking. He started with the car accident, and found that breaching the dam of silence led to a veritable flood of words. He told Jack everything, including the appearance of Morgan, Sam’s apparent awakening, and his subsequent decision to take a swan-dive off police headquarters in 2006. Finally, he fell silent; feeling tired and drained, but somehow also relieved.   
   
Jack slowly extended his hand to cover Sam’s. Sam turned to look at him through bleary eyes, and saw only compassion on Jack’s face. Jack gently wrapped an arm around Sam’s shoulders and, being careful not to put pressure on the cuts on his neck, pulled Sam back to lie against him. Sam felt Jack pull his overcoat over both of them, and his last thought this time before slipping into an exhausted sleep was that camel hair would probably feel softer.

***


	2. Chapter 2

In reality, he had probably slept a few hours, but it only felt like a few minutes to Sam when he was awoken by a banging on his front door. Unfortunately, due to his initial groggy confusion he hadn’t actually managed to disentangle himself from Jack and rise from the sofa before he heard a key in the lock. In the next moment his uncoordinated attempts to rise were all rendered redundant as Gene Hunt stood over them, hands on hips, glowering.

“Well isn’t this a pretty picture: Prince Charming and bleedin’ Sleeping Beauty!”

“And good morning to you, too, D.C.I. Hunt,” replied Jack cheerily, as Sam finally managed to swing his legs free of the overcoat and sit upright, gingerly rubbing his hands over his head and making his hair stand on end.

Gene studiously ignored Harkness.

“Although by the looks of you, Gladys, I’d say you didn’t get your regular beauty sleep last night. You look like you’ve been ridden hard and put away wet.”

Sam shot Gene a disgusted look and got to his feet, wincing slightly.

Jack also rose, looking at Sam as he nodded towards Gene. “Is he always like this?”

Sam sighed. “Pretty much, yes.”

Jack favoured Gene with what he evidently judged to be a particularly annoying grin, and said to Sam, “Well, I can see why you find him so adorable.”

Sam stepped between them before Gene’s expression turned from thunderous to murderous. He held up a hand in a commanding gesture.

“Coffee first. Then you can bicker to your hearts’ content.” 

***

As a good host Sam insisted that Jack should take the first shower, and that he should make free with Sam’s belongings, which earned him a pointedly raised eyebrow from Gene, but thankfully no comment.

While the water ran, Sam headed into the kitchen area to make coffee and Gene followed him.

“So?” he demanded.

“So, what?”

“So, what happened with Larry Grayson?” Gene jerked his head towards the bathroom door.

Sam, busy filling the kettle, let out an exasperated noise. “Nothing. Nothing at all happened. What, did you think we had hot sex then got dressed again and decided to sleep on the sofa? And what business is it of yours, anyway?”

“Well, it is my business if my D.I. risks mucking up the case and puts himself in danger by inviting a suspect to stay the night with him – oh, hang on, why does that sounds familiar?”

Sam’s voice rose in anger. “He’s not a suspect, and NOTHING happened, although right now I bloody well wish it had!” He slammed a mug onto the counter top and spun to face Gene.

They stood toe-to-toe, both breathing heavily, glaring at each other. In some distant, rational bit of his brain Sam realised that he had, in effect, just outed himself. He braced himself for Gene’s response, which was likely to involve fists and possibly even a well-placed size eleven loafer. They glared at each other for a few moments, then Gene, uncharacteristically, looked away. Sam released a breath he didn’t even know he was holding and slowly turned back to the counter, doing his best to look calm even though his heart was lurching strangely in his chest.

He poured two strong coffees, and heard Gene clear his throat behind him.

“How’s your head?” Gene asked, in a gruffly soft tone.

Sam felt his own anger melt, knowing that was the closest Gene could bring himself to any sort of apology.

“It’s OK.” He replied, slightly surprised to find that this was actually true, despite the scotch and the late night. The cathartic effects of having unburdened himself, he thought wryly.

He added milk and sugar to one of the mugs, and handed it to Gene in his own version of a peace-offering.

“What happened at the jewellery heist last night?”

Gene snorted.

“Some stupid buggers got completely rat-arsed at their local boozer and decided to do a smash-and-grab on their way home. Caught them all red-handed two streets away trying to nick a get-away car. The fact they were trying to break into a Hillman Imp by using a diamond necklace to cut the driver-side window gives you some idea how pissed out of their heads they were.”

Sam smiled at the image. “You have to give them points for creativity.”

“Well, you would if they had been real diamonds.”

They grinned at each other for a moment.

Then the noise of running water from the bathroom stopped.

Gene spoke again in a low, hurried tone.

“Chris couldn’t find the murder weapon. And with all the rain last night, there’s no trail to follow.”

Sam swallowed. He did trust Gene, but he couldn’t tell him the whole truth – it sounded mad to his own ears, and he really didn’t want to put Gene in the position of having to call the men in white coats to haul away his DI. He thought furiously.

“I’m sure he’s not our murderer, Gene. But I agree with you that there’s something he’s not telling us.”

Gene’s expression turned shrewd and calculating.

“Something the Americans don’t want us to know?”

“Maybe…”

At that moment Jack emerged from the bathroom, his hair wet and skin still moist from the shower. Wrapped around his waist was about the smallest towel Sam owned – Jack must have hunted through the whole pile to find that one. He gave them a jaunty grin, and proceeded to Sam’s bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

For a moment Gene and Sam both stared, open-mouthed, after him.

Sam recollected himself, and before Gene could work up a good temper, Sam took his arm and stepped closer, speaking in a confidential tone.

“Give me the day – just the morning, if you like – to try to get something more out of him.”

Gene eyed him warily.

“I’m more worried about what he might try to get out of you. Or into you.”

Sam drew himself to his full height, and focussed every ounce of his DCI authority into his expression.

“Trust me.”

“Heaven help us.” muttered Gene.

***

“He’s quite a character, your DCI.” Jack, now dressed, sat at the kitchen table finishing off his breakfast. Sam had just emerged, washed and changed, from his bedroom. He picked up Jack’s empty plate and moved to the sink, turning on the tap.

“Yes,” he replied, totally unaware of the fond expression on his face, which Jack observed with interest over the rim of his coffee mug.

Gene had gone, agreeing that they would meet back at CID later that day, but not without a certain amount of grumbling, warnings, threats, and a couple of dire predictions thrown in for good measure.

“I can’t imagine how you’ve managed to be his deputy for this long without killing him.”

“Oh, he’s not that bad.” Sam paused, hands immersed in hot water, for a moment’s reflection. “Well, actually he is. But he’s great, too. I mean, don’t let that Neanderthal exterior fool you. He’s very smart, and very dedicated. OK, so he’s got quite a short fuse, but…he cares about the job.”

“A man of passion, then?” asked Jack archly.

Sam pulled the plug, and moved to dry his hands.

“Yes..” he replied distractedly, before realising that the conversation was straying into territory he wasn’t sure he wanted to explore. “Hmm? Oh, well, I suppose so.”

Jack smiled. “Well, he certainly seems to be passionate about you.”

Sam turned to him sharply, a brief flicker of both fear and hope in his expression before he regained his composure.

“What?”

“Well, the way he reacts to me being here, for instance.”

Sam dismissed Jack’s words with a casual wave of his hand.

“Oh, he’s just a bit territorial. He’s like that with the whole team.”

“Maybe. But I think it’s more than that in your case.” Jack stood, and placed his now-empty mug in the sink.

Sam smiled and shook his head.

“Gene was married…”

In one smooth move, Jack stepped closer in the confines of the kitchen, and reached out to touch Sam’s face, gently running a thumb along his jaw line.

“Yes, but I think you know that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Believe me. I was married to a woman once.” He paused and looked off into the middle-distance for a moment. “At least, I think I was. Anyway, the point is, Gene looks pretty interested from where I’m standing.”

Sam swallowed nervously, but held his ground.

“Um…well…what..” He tailed off, mouth suddenly dry.

Jack smiled a little regretfully and dropped his hand, moving away to lean against the counter. He folded his arms and cocked his head to one side, regarding Sam thoughtfully.

“Ah. Well let me try a wild stab in the dark here. A fellow has been involved with girls over the years, but finds his eye straying to the other side of the track once in a while. Not that he’s ever done anything about it, of course. Too scared to take the risk: afraid of what other people might say, worried about his job, afraid of being rejected, afraid of not being rejected…How am I doing?”

“Pretty bloody well, actually.” Sam replied with a rueful smile, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Boy, do you have it bad!” Jack’s smile widened. 

Sam cleared his throat, suddenly self-conscious. “Look, this is all very well, but we’ve got more serious things to focus on right now.”

Jack nodded his agreement, his manner turning business-like as Sam continued.

“So, this - thing – what do I need to know about it, and where is it likely to be hiding? And what are we going to do once we’ve found it? How are you going to capture it?” He looked up at Jack sharply. “You are going to capture it, aren’t you? I mean, you’re not just going to kill it?…”

“Don’t worry. Although I’d say it’s little better than vermin, I’m going to capture it and take it back with me.” He looked at Sam, and his expression grew more serious. “I can’t leave it here; it doesn’t belong in this time or place. It’s an alien; even dead, the discovery of the body, or the survival of any of its physical matter, could have serious consequences for the timeline.” 

As Jack’s words sank in, the cold feeling in the pit of Sam’s stomach returned, spreading its tendrils inside him. He found his voice.

“And what about me?”

Jack exhaled, and ran a hand through his hair.

“I don’t know. You shouldn’t be here. It sounds as though you got here through a temporal shift the same way I did, but I don’t understand why you are still here. I mean, that whole incident in the railway tunnel: I can’t believe that it was just a delusion brought on by your head injury. Too much time had gone by; you should have been fully recovered. And although in theory another temporal shift could have returned you to two-thousand and six, and a third one could have opened just as you jumped from the roof, that’s really, really unlikely. I mean, seriously, it’s even more unlikely than winning the National Lottery jackpot three times.” Jack paused.

“It’s almost as though…” he trailed off, and fell silent. After a moment he shook his head.

“OK, so, back to our Lathadimonian. It’s a plasma-drinking species which hunts by smell, and has a liking for human blood. It’s about human-sized and bipedal, which is why people have assumed it is a man, and has razor-sharp claws on its fore-limbs, which is what caused your injuries. It will be nesting somewhere for the next couple of days before it goes out to feed again – somewhere warm and dry and quiet.” He waved his wrist with the watch on it at Sam. “I’ll know when we are within fifty feet or so. And then I’m going hit it with this.” With a flourish, he produced an object from his trouser pocket. Sam peered at it in confusion.

“A Philips screwdriver?”

“Not just any old Philips screwdriver. I’ve made some modifications to it, see?” He handed it to Sam, who discovered that it had a recessed button on one side which fitted comfortably under his thumb if he pointed it. 

“A bit like a tazer, only it’s instant and can work at a range of a few feet,” Jack continued, proudly. “That’s the stun setting. Well, it’s the only setting, actually, but think of it as a work in progress.”

Sam handed it back, looking doubtful.

“That’s great, but if you don’t mind, I’ll bring along a gun just in case.”

Jack gave a sight shrug.

“Not sure bullets have much of an effect, but it can’t hurt to have back-up. The temporal window will be opening at…” Jack consulted his watch, “…9:56 this evening, so we need to catch our prey and get over to the right location by then.”

“And what happens then?”

“Well, we step into the window and get yanked back to Cardiff, two-thousand-and-six. Like an elastic band that’s been stretched and then released, snapping back into place.”

Sam nodded, remembering that part of the explanation from the previous night.

“What happens if you miss it?”

“Then we’re as stuck here as you are. Until the next window opens. Which could be in a few days, or a few years. Or never.”

“And where is this window?”

“Same place I fell through yesterday morning – the edge of a construction site somewhere near Oxford Road.” 

Sam paled, the coldness in his guts seeming to coalesce into a solid weight. Jack looked at him in concern. “Don’t worry; I’m confident I can find the place again.”

“You don’t need to.” Sam said quietly. “It’s the same spot I arrived at.”

***

They started at Foster Alley, and circled outwards. Jack steered them away from busy areas, explaining that the Lathadimonian would seek out a quiet place to rest and digest its meal. 

By noon they had nothing to show for their efforts other than dust, grime and flat batteries in Sam’s torch. They paused at a street corner, mulling over the now-crumpled map. Sam gave an exasperated sigh.

“This is worse than looking for a needle in a haystack. We need some help.”

Jack looked up at him.

“I know you trust Gene, but somehow I don’t think we can just walk up to him and tell him we need help looking for an alien from the future.”

“No, I know. We need some sort of cover story.”

“Well, you are genuinely hunting for a murderer. But how do we explain my involvement? And how are we going to make sure that no-one else attempts to approach it if they find it?”

Sam chewed on his thumb, thinking. His gaze fell on the insignia on Jack’s overcoat.

“I think I have an idea.”

***

Gene took a long drag on his cigarette and exhaled slowly, the smoke wreathing his features for a moment before it drifted ceiling-wards.

His expression was impassive as he faced Jack across his desk, Sam leaning against the filing cabinet. Gene slowly ground out his cigarette.

“Let me see if I’ve got this right. You are after an American serviceman who has contracted some sort of tropical disease which has turned him into a raving homicidal maniac. And it could be contagious, so we have to find him, but not get too close, and then call you in so that you can tranquilise him and cart him off for medical treatment.”

“That’s pretty much it,” said Jack.

Gene nodded slowly. He rose to his feet and leaned forward, planting his hands on his desk.

“And what part of this complete and utter twaddle did you think I would really believe? I mean, I was fully expecting porky-pies from you,” Gene gestured at Jack before turning to face Sam, “But as for you, Tyler, I can’t decide whether you are really stupid or whether you just think I am.”

Sam swallowed, but before he could speak, Jack got to his feet and stepped in front of Gene.

“Ge- DCI Hunt, I know it sounds crazy, but we really are hunting a homicidal maniac; he is dangerous; and although we were hoping to be able to keep it all under wraps I realise that I can’t find him without your help.” 

Gene returned his level gaze.

“Do you know, I think that’s the first true thing you’ve said so far.”

***

Sam and Gene walked out of Gene’s office shoulder-to-shoulder, and proceeded to brief the team. Jack, now given semi-official status, stepped forward to stress both the dangerous and confidential nature of the search. While he answered questions and spoke to the various team members, Sam and Gene retreated to his office with Chris and Ray to organise the search teams and areas for them to cover.

Sam handed Chris a box of radios from behind the old leather sofa and Ray gathered a handful of maps from the filing cabinet as Gene stared out of his window, seemingly lost in thought.

He watched as Jack moved easily around the squad room, getting nods and smiles from the team, and even a salute from DC Griggs who had served in the Second World War and seemed to hold the US Air Force in particularly high esteem. Gene snorted in disgust. 

“Thinks he’s bloody Cary Grant.”

“Well, he is quite charming,” said Sam, coming to peer over Gene’s shoulder.

“Less ‘North by Northwest’ and more ‘Operation Petticoat’ if you ask me.” Gene grumbled.

“Isn’t that the one with a load of birds on a submarine?” Ray put in, slightly confused.

“Yes, and doesn’t Cary Grant get married at the end of it?” Sam added, brow furrowing.

Gene cut them both short. “Seemed to involve a lot of nancying around, as I remember it.” 

Ray moved alongside them, catching sight of Jack. “Maybe so, Guv, but all the plonks like him. And you should have seen the canteen earlier – there was nearly a riot over who would dish up his pie and mash.”

“Yeah,” added Chris, balancing on his tip-toes behind them and craning his neck to get a better view, “he even told Phyllis her hair-do looked nice today.”

Gene barked out a laugh “Can’t imagine that cut much mustard with Phyllis.”

“Don’t know, Guv, it were hard to tell – she had a bit of a funny turn and said she needed to go and have a fag and a bit of a sit down.”

Gene sighed, shaking his head.

“Better break the news to her that he’s light in the loafers.”

Sam rolled his eyes.

“You know, it is possible to fancy men and women.”

They all turned to stare at him. Ray was smirking, obviously storing that nugget away for future piss-taking, but Gene’s look was thoughtful, assessing.

Sam folded his arms and held his chin high. “Lots of people do. It’s a well-known fact.” He said airily.

“That’s right,” Chris chipped in, “I read about that. They’re called bi-sectionals.”

“Gawd, it’s like talking to Ross and Norris McWhirter,” Gene muttered. He ushered them all towards the office door with both hands. “Fascinating though this is, ladies, I’m more interested in breaking the land-speed record for finding lunatic killers, so shake a bloody leg!”

***

It had grown dark by the time they re-convened at the Cortina; Sam and Jack sat in the front using the interior light to pore over the map while Gene leaned back against the open car door, cigarette dangling from his lips. 

Sam thumped the steering wheel in frustration.

“We’ve been through every back yard and outhouse in this whole estate and still no signs of him. I thought you said that he would hole up somewhere and stay put.”

“He will,” replied Jack. “He won’t have travelled far.”

“Then how the hell have we missed him! I don’t understand how he can have slipped by us: we’ve covered all the routes out of the estate.”

Gene, seemingly lost in thought, suddenly straightened.

“Bloody hell.” He muttered, tossing his fag to the ground. Then he spoke more loudly, “Think we might have missed something, Sammy-boy. There’s a footpath not on the map which cuts directly through the housing estate and out to Varley Street”.

Sam’s eyes widened with realisation. “Victoria Mills.”

Gene nodded. “Been derelict for ages. No-one around. Outside our search area, but quick and easy to get to from Foster Alley – if you know the shortcut.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Lay on, McDuff.” 

   
***

  



	3. Chapter 3

They screeched to a halt outside Victoria Mills and all leapt out of the car. Sam squinted at the building: it was shrouded in darkness, the broken windows and boarded up doors giving the place a distinctly gloomy atmosphere. Jack called them over to where he had discovered a few planks missing from a side entrance.

“OK, Sam and I will go in and search the place,” he turned to Gene, “but we have to be sure it- er, he can’t double back on us, so I need you to stay and cover this exit.”

For a moment Gene looked as though he was going to argue, but then he simply shrugged.

“Fine by me. Rather not get my shoes dirty, anyway. But if you’re not out in half-an-hour I’m off to the boozer.”

He wandered back to lean against the car, arms folded, as Sam and Jack squeezed through the gap and into the darkness of the abandoned building. They both switched on their torches and Sam drew his gun with his free hand. He noticed that Jack was holding the screwdriver, pointing the sharp end ahead of him.

They proceeded cautiously, sweeping their lights around the ground floor area. Jack was checking his watch as they went and Sam realised he could hear it beeping faintly. After a few minutes, Jack indicated a brick staircase leading to the upper floors, and Sam followed him further into the gloom.

They continued up and up, Jack’s attention was focussed on the readings from his watch and Sam was just wondering what range it had when something launched itself at them from the shadows. Jack just had time to shout a warning as the creature barrelled into them both, the impact sending them falling backwards.

Sam stumbled awkwardly down a few steps before managing to twist so that he slammed back against the wall, breaking his fall. He flung a hand out to his companion but grasped only air. Where Jack had been Sam caught a glimpse in the beam of his fallen torch of something utterly alien, before he raised his gun and fired repeatedly, emptying the barrel. The creature let out a snarled howl and Sam braced himself against the wall, but rather than attack him the thing sprang over the handrail and vanished into the darkness. Snatching up the torch, Sam lunged to the rail, the beam showing the Lathadimonian shambling quickly down the stairs a floor below.

Scarcely thinking, Sam spun and started down after it, only to come to a sudden halt as he reached Jack on the lower landing. The sightless eyes and the neck bent at an impossible angle told him everything he needed to know. Not allowing himself to pause, Sam swept the screwdriver from Jack’s lifeless hand and dashed down the staircase in pursuit.

He pounded down the stairs two at a time. The hammering of his heart sounded loud to his own ears until he realised with a sickening lurch that what he could hear was the pound of running footsteps below. Any remaining composure Sam may still have possessed went right out of the window replaced with cold numbing fear, and as he hurtled down the stairs all he could think of was _not Gene, please not Gene_.

Reaching the final landing, Sam vaulted over the handrail just as a loud yell rang out. Fingers scrabbling at the grip of the screwdriver, Sam took aim and fired, and several things happened at once. A thin beam of intense blue-white light flashed out from the end of the screwdriver, illuminating a snapshot of the scene: Gene, arm outstretched, firing at the Lathadimonian while the creature was caught mid-leap as it sprang at Gene with a blood-curdling howl. Then they were plunged into semi-darkness once more and Sam hit the ground, landing awkwardly.

There was silence apart from a gasping noise, which Sam finally realised was him. Only one torch still seemed to be working, the beam shining at floor level, illuminating nothing but swirling dust motes. Sam rolled unsteadily to his feet and grabbed it, swinging the beam around to where he’d last seen Gene.

“Gene?...Gene!” Sam ran the few feet over to where Gene was lying, the Lathadimonian sprawled over him, both of them unmoving. Sam dropped to his knees, his chest constricting painfully.

“Gene..”

“For fuck’s sake, Tyler, stop repeating my name like a scratched record and get this bloody thing off me!”

Suppressing a sudden urge to laugh, Sam heaved the alien to one side and helped Gene to his feet, feeling light-headed with relief. They leant against each other for moment, then Gene’s hand closed over his and Sam froze, mouth suddenly dry. Gene eased the torch out of Sam’s grip and swung it round to illuminate the creature on the floor.

They both stared, Sam transfixed by the grey skin, the long, sharp talons, and the strange articulated proboscis…or was that its mouth? He tried to steady his breath, fighting the urge to vomit.

“Nice job, guys,” croaked a familiar voice from behind them.

Sam leapt in shock and spun around to see Jack leaning wearily against the wall.

“But...you had a broken neck. I saw you…”

Jack gave a rather pained shrug. He lowered his torch beam and dropped to sit on the bottom stair.

Wordlessly, Gene reached into his pocket, withdrew a flask and took a hefty swig then passed it on to Sam. Sam took a grateful mouthful before handing it in turn to Jack, who up-ended it like a man dying of thirst.

Somewhere off in the distance a dog barked.

Gene wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Will somebody tell me what the bleeding hell is going on?” He enunciated carefully, starting calmly and quietly enough, but ending in a roar.

Sam stepped towards him, hand held out in a placating gesture. “It’s OK…” he shot Jack a meaningful glance, “…although I could do with some answers myself.”

“Answers my arse! I’ve just been attacked by a reject from ‘Animal Magic’, and I’m looking at a man who should be dead but is instead sitting there drinking my single malt!”

Chest heaving, Gene looked from Sam to Jack and back again, expression thunderous. He raised a finger to Sam. “And don’t try feeding me that cock-and-bull story about a sick airman, because if that – thing –” he pointed down at it, “- is human then that must make us three the bloody Beverley sisters!”

With an air of weary resignation, Jack pushed to his feet and walked towards Gene. “OK,” he said, raising his own voice, “It’s an alien, I’m from the future, and I can’t die. Feel better now?” He slapped the flask against Gene’s chest.

Gene glared at him for a moment, breathing heavily through his nose, then grabbed his flask, turned on his heel and stalked out towards the car.

Jack winced and rubbed the back of his neck. “I hate dying.”

***

Jack clicked cuffs shut around the Lathadimonian’s wrists as Sam held the torch steady.

“So, you are really immortal?” Sam asked.

“So it would seem,” Jack murmured, securing another set of cuffs around its ankles, “But it’s a long story, and we’re running out of time.”

He straightened up to find Sam holding out the screwdriver. Jack took it with a wry smile. He prodded the Lathadimonian with his foot. “We’d better move and get this stowed in the car before anyone else catches sight of it.” He glanced back to Sam. “And you need to direct the rest of the search parties away from here.”

“Not to worry.” Gene’s voice came from the doorway. He strode back into the building, pocketing his radio as he walked. “CID’s finest are currently occupied over at Burnham’s old warehouse carrying out an exhaustive – although ultimately fruitless – search of our murderer’s lair.”

He grinned ferally at the look of confusion on Jack’s face. “No doubt they’ll find evidence of his tragic, drug-fuelled demise.”

Jack blinked in surprise. “How are you going to explain the lack of a body?”

Gene shrugged, unconcerned. “We’ll think of something.”

Sam gnawed at his bottom lip. This was just the sort of thing he hated: planting evidence and fabricating cover-ups. And yet, in this case what other option did they have? And he wasn’t even sure if he’d still be around to face the consequences…cold nausea roiled inside him.

Gene caught his expression, and snapped at him.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake Gladys, give your conscience a rest. You weren’t bothered about lying to me earlier, so I don’t know why you’ve got your knickers in a twist now!”

“He’s right,” said Jack, in agreement. “It’s safer for all concerned to be well away from here, and better to have a cover story lined up.”

Gene turned to him, eyebrow raised. “Good God, we finally agree on something. I’m expecting to see a flying pig any time now.”

Despite the sarcasm, Jack was looking back at him with new-found respect.

“So, what happens next?” asked Gene.

“Well, I take this -” Jack heaved the Lathadimonian up off the ground and slung it over his shoulder. “- back to where we came from. I can direct you to the, err, pick-up point.”

Gene gave him a searching look, and then nodded once, decision made.

“Right, then, wagons roll. C’mon, Tyler, look sharp and stop standing there gawping like a fish on a slab!”

***

It was dark and quiet, the area around the construction site quite deserted at this time of night. Sam and Gene sat side-by-side in the Cortina, which was parked on waste ground, waiting for Jack to return from his reconnoitre. The alien, still unconscious, was secured in the car boot.

For once Sam was not fidgeting or twitching, but this was so unusual that his very stillness added to the uneasy atmosphere. Finally, Gene broke the silence.

“How much of all this did he tell you last night?”

“Most of it,” said Sam, quietly.

“I see.” Gene’s reply was tense, bitten out through gritted teeth.

“I wanted to tell you, but it sounded crazy – even I didn’t know what to think.”

“You should have trusted me. All this time we’ve worked together, and instead you trust some random bloke who turns up out of the blue.”

“It wasn’t like that. I do trust you.” Sam struggled to find the right words. “It’s just that there was something familiar about Jack; we have a lot of things in common.”

Gene pursed his lips.

“And what else did he tell you?”

“Nothing specific. We just talked. About all sorts. He understands…” He trailed off, unsure how to continue.

“About Hyde.” Gene interjected.

“About Hyde. About me.…I can talk to him about things.”

“And you can’t talk to me.” It wasn’t a question, for which Sam was grateful as he really had no answer. He could talk to Gene about anything and everything else, it seemed, except to broach the subject of his true ‘home’.

Gene nodded to himself slowly, apparently reading his own meaning into Sam’s silence.

“So, are you going back with him, then?” he asked, his voice sounding curiously hoarse, his gaze fixed on something through the car windscreen.

Sam looked at him in surprise: surely after all this time, all they’d been through, Gene realised he wanted to stay?

“I don’t want to,” he said, carefully, “But Jack said that me being here could be tampering with…events. You know, changing things which might have consequences. In Hyde.”

Still looking out of the car window, Gene gave a humourless laugh. “Like that’s ever stopped you. You’ve done nothing but blunder about like a bull in a china shop since you got here.” 

Sam opened his mouth to protest, but realised that this was simply Gene’s defence mechanism speaking: sometimes they were very alike, he thought ruefully. So instead he nodded.

“Yes, I know. And if I have any choice in the matter I’ll stay here and continue to blunder about. With you.”

Something in his words finally got through to Gene, and he turned to meet Sam’s eyes. For a long, meaningful moment they looked at one another. Sam’s gaze flicked from Gene’s eyes to his lips and back again. The strange feeling in his gut was back, but this time heat was blooming, and it was hot, hot, _burning_, and he leaned towards Gene, closing the distance. And Gene didn’t pull away, in fact he seemed to be leaning in, too, and Christ, it was actually going to happen…

A sudden knock on the window had them both jumping apart, Gene cursing under his breath. It was Jack; Sam opened his door and Jack bent down a little to speak to him.

“This is the right spot. Sam – can you give me a hand?”

Somewhat reluctantly, Sam got out of the car. Gene wound down the drivers-side window and lit a cigarette, watching them closely through narrowed eyes.

Jack consulted his watch, looked up at the stars, then pointed to a spot on the ground a little distance away. He walked over there, indicating to Sam to follow. As Jack used a stick to scratch out a circle in the mud, he began to speak.

“I’ve been thinking about what happened to you, and I have a theory. Back in two thousand and six you get caught in a temporal shift just as you get hit by a car, and in that split second something goes wrong. So instead of just being shifted – transported – to 1973, you get split somehow: the 2006-version of you is hit by a car, and is taken to hospital in a coma. The 1973-you wakes up here.”

Jack paused for a moment as he completed the circle in the mud and straightened up, throwing away the stick. “But see, you are both still connected somehow, and your experiences sort of ‘bleed through’ to the other you, so you get flashes of your other life. Kinda like a photograph with a double-exposure.”

Sam frowned thoughtfully as Jack checked his watch again, and continued.

“Which explains why you can “remember” people talking to you in hospital, and all that other stuff. The 2006-you wakes up, but has crazy, vivid memories of 1973. At the point you were in that tunnel, you had a ‘flash’ of the 2006-you waking up and throwing himself off the roof and BAM!” Jack hit his fist against his palm. “He dies. No more connection to 2006, no more visions of your ‘other’ life in the future. Just you, here.” He looked at Sam, who stared back, wide-eyed.

“Your elastic band has snapped.” Jack said, simply.

“So, what does that all mean?” asked Sam, anxiously.

Jack exhaled expansively and threw both hands up in the air.

“I have no idea! But there’s a risk that taking you back may be the wrong thing to do. See, in 2006 you lived, and then died. Taking you back there wouldn’t be returning you; it would be like introducing a second Sam Tyler. I don’t know what will happen if you pop back into the timeline at that point.”

Jack rubbed the back of his neck, and gave Sam a wry smile.

“But then I don’t know what will happen if I leave you here, either. And you know, I could do with a guy like you on my team.”

“Thanks, but I’ve already got a team.” Sam’s mouth twisted as he glanced away for a moment; then he looked back at Jack and continued, his voice firm.

“The thing is, I don’t want to go back. I mean, I can understand that if the whole future was at risk just because of me then I wouldn’t have a choice. But it sounds like I do have a choice, and I want to stay here.”

Jack stepped closer, touching a hand to Sam’s arm.

“Are you sure? This is probably your one and only chance to go back to two thousand and six, and it will run out in just a few minutes.”

Sam nodded slowly, a smile starting to form on his face.

“Yes, I’m absolutely sure.”

Jack smiled in return and gave a small shrug.

“Shame” he said simply. Then leaning closer, and taking Sam’s face between his hands, Jack kissed him.

Close to them, someone cleared their throat loudly. Apparently oblivious, Jack deepened the kiss, Sam going with him, lost in the moment.

“Oi!” this time Gene’s voice was insistent, and was accompanied by a heavy hand landing on Jack’s shoulder. “Come in number one, your time is up!”

They broke apart, both grinning, although in Sam’s case somewhat sheepishly.

“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” said Jack.

“I think you’ve tried quite hard enough,” said Gene, dryly but without rancour. “Time to sling your hook, Captain Harkness.”

Jack gave a nod, and quickly headed back to the car.

Gene regarded Sam silently. Sam’s cheeks were tinged pink with embarrassment, but his voice sounded level when he finally spoke.

“How much of that did you hear?”

“Enough.”

Sam canted him a sideways look.

“Eavesdropping, Guv?”

“I think you’ll find that in modern policing parlance it’s called ‘surveillance’. Besides, I had to find out whether or not I was going to have to shoot him.”

Gene withdrew a gun from his coat pocket, put the safety catch back on, and replaced it. Sam’s jaw dropped open.

“Well, it’s not like it would have killed him. Just put him out of action long enough to drag him over to Burnham’s warehouse.” Gene glanced over and saw Sam’s expression.

“I could hardly let him kidnap me D.I., now, could I.” He sniffed and looked away. “I’d never hear the last of it down the pub.”

Gene tried to sound casual, but Sam could detect a note of relief under the bluster. Sam started to smile.

“Well, I’m staying,” he said.

“So I gather,” Gene deadpanned.

“For good.”

“Right-o.”

“Is that it? Is that all you can think of to say, ‘right-o’?”

“What were you expecting, a Shakespearean sonnet?”

Sam could see the twitch of a concealed smile on Gene’s face.

“Besides, you’ve got a lot of making up to do, Gladys.”

Sam nodded.

“I know I do.”

And before he completely lost his nerve, Sam leaned over and kissed Gene squarely on the mouth. For one horrible moment nothing much happened. Then Gene, evidently deciding that if he was going to do this then he was going to do it properly, grabbed Sam by the lapels of his leather jacket and pulled him close, tilting his head to one side. As kisses went it was messy, uncoordinated, awkward, and absolutely bloody glorious.

They were interrupted by Jack’s return, the unconscious Lathadimonian hoisted over one shoulder.

“Hey, guys, could you at least wait until I’ve gone…” he flashed them a wicked grin and winked at Gene “…then go get a room someplace.”

 He went to stand within the marked circle, and turned to face them both.

“Thanks. And good luck, Sam Tyler.”

Sam raised a hand in farewell. There was a minute or two of silence, and Sam was just starting to wonder if Jack had made a terrible mistake when an intensely bright flash of light burst forth from the spot where Jack was standing. For a few seconds Sam and Gene were both blinking blindly, but then as their vision returned they found themselves staring at a now-empty circle.

Silently, Gene extracted a flask from an inside pocket and took a large swig. Sam, feeling oddly energised and happy, bounced on his toes, swinging his arms. He tilted back his head and looked up at the stars, a grin spreading across his features.

He turned to Gene.

“So…”

“Hmpf.” Gene gave a non-committal grunt.

“Pub?” Sam ventured.

Gene thought for a second, re-capping his flask and putting it away.

“Home.”

Sam’s eyes widened. Gene leaned closer, his words full of promise.

“_My_ home.”

***

Since Vera had left, the housework had generally suffered and their - now Gene’s - bedroom often tended to be a mess. But on this particular Sunday evening it was an absolute shambles. Clothes and shoes were strewn across the floor. Empty plates and mugs were to be found under the bed, next to an odd sock and a half-empty bottle of whiskey. On one bedside table lay the remains of a large, slightly melted bar of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk, balanced on top of a weighty book entitled “Forensic Techniques in the Field”. On the other stood an overflowing ashtray and a jar of Vaseline. Although some attempt had been made to straighten them, the bed clothes were rumpled and really didn’t warrant close scrutiny. But then as Gene had pointed out, what was the weekend for, if not to relax?

In the midst of all this mess, Sam and Gene sat side-by-side in bed.

Gene had a newspaper in one hand and a pen in the other, dragging on his cigarette as he idly contemplated the crossword. He had the self-satisfied air of a man who had recently proved beyond any shadow of a doubt that old dogs can, in fact, learn new tricks.

Sam was perusing the case file lying open on his lap. With a slight wince, he shifted his weight from one hip to the other.

“So, our official conclusion is that we believe the killer was a down-and-out drug-addict, who basically went loopy.”

Gene didn’t take his eyes from the crossword, filling in another answer as he spoke.

“Stands to reason, Sammy-boy; only a drug-crazed lunatic would have killed Gloria Hanson like that. And it’s much more convincing than your ‘diseased American airman’ story.”

“Hmm. I suppose you have a point,” Sam conceded. He turned a page. “And then he threw himself in the canal when we pursued him.”

“Like I said, lunatic.”

“And we never recovered his body.”

“That’s right, on account of it being particularly deep at that point near the lock. And it had been pissing it down with rain – could’ve got washed down some storm drain never to be seen again.”

Sam closed the file, and lay it down on the bedside table.

“And Captain Jack Harkness?” he asked.

“Just a witness. We’ve got his statement; the case is closed.” Gene filled in the final answer, stubbed out his fag, and discarded the newspaper and pen on the floor by the bed. “We don’t need to speak to him again.” He turned to Sam. “Just as well, really, as we don’t have a direct line to him … in _Hyde_,” Gene said, with pointed emphasis.

Sam looked over at him, his expression serious. He drew a deep breath. “I do want to talk, Gene,” he said, quietly, “I want to tell you everything.”

Gene regarded him with a curious mixture of fond affection tinged with lust. “About bloody time. And I intend to listen, but not tonight. Tonight, Gladys, we are celebrating closing a particularly nasty case.”

Sam started to smile in return. “I thought we’d been celebrating that all weekend.” He moved closer to Gene, shifting onto his side and propping his head on his hand. His smile turned smug. “And after all, I was right: Jack wasn’t the culprit.”

Gene frowned sharply. “But he was as fake as Dame Edna’s tits – so I was right.” He rolled closer to Sam, reaching under the covers to run one hand slowly up his flank. Sam tried to look unaffected.

“Well, I was more right than you.”

“How do you work that out?”

“He _did_ intervene to save me…”

“Yes, but he did know a lot more than he was telling.”

“… and he really _was_ in the Air Force once upon a time…”

“And he is a flaming poofter.”

“… and Cary Grant _does_ get married at the end of ‘Operation Petticoat’…”

“For God’s sake, Tyler!”

“_Mmpf!_”

And Sam’s last rational thought, before he temporarily lost the capacity for it, was that he much preferred the prospect of death from too much pleasure than death by frustration; and with Gene he was likely to get an overdose of both.

***  
 

  
   
END 


End file.
